


Worst Aid

by violetonmain



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Battle wounds, F/M, Masturbation, Masturbation as Pain Relief, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, guided masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27753640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetonmain/pseuds/violetonmain
Summary: “I think I’ve got an idea,” Mercedes says. “Though it may be—unconventional.”--Sylvain doesn't want pain medication for his wounds. Set post-Sylvain/Felix A+ support.
Relationships: Sylvain Jose Gautier/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58
Collections: Wank Week





	Worst Aid

**Author's Note:**

> Written for FE3H Wanksgiving Weekend, for prompt "praise."

Felix leaves and Sylvain all but collapses onto his bed, breathing shallowly through grit teeth. His shoulders shake with the effort of holding them square, and sweat pricks at his hairline and the back of his neck.

It hurts.

“I almost want to give you a hug,” Felix had said. Sylvain’s glad he didn’t. The slightest touch would have given him away, and then Felix would have worried. Sylvain can’t let Felix worry about him.

A gentle knock at the door.

“Sylvain?” comes Mercedes’ soft voice. “May I come in?”

Sylvain winces. Of course Mercedes would come to find him. Others may let him off the hook for his reckless behavior, but not her. “Sure thing,” he says, against everything in him that wants to keep everyone out for their own good.

“I was surprised that you left the infirmary,” Mercedes says, carrying a basket of medical supplies into Sylvain’s room. “When I made my rounds a couple hours ago, you could barely sit up.”

“What can I say,” Sylvain says, taking great care not to react as he folds his arms behind his head. “Seeing your radiant beauty must have been all the healing I needed.”

Mercedes frowns at him. “Oh, dear.”

Sylvain must look worse than he’d thought, because Mercedes sets to work immediately, picking through her basket and pulling out a small vial, a handful of jars, and a cloth. Sylvain struggles his arms down and eyes the jars, feeling a sense of guilt. That basket must be heavy.

Mercedes fluffs the pillow at the head of Sylvain’s bed and gestures for him to sit against the headboard. As he’s arranging himself, gingerly now that he’s been found out, she says, “I ran into Felix on my way up. He seemed rather upset to see me.”

Sylvain laughs weakly, and winces at the feeling. “Yeah, that’s Felix. He’s always upset about something.”

“Hmm.” Mercedes folds her cloth neatly and begins to dab at Sylvain’s brow. “I’m sorry if my arrival was poorly timed. I don’t want to cause problems between you two.”

“Heh. Don’t worry about that. Like I said, Felix is always upset about something.” The cloth is cool, and scented with lavender. Sylvain leans into it, feeling his breath deepen. “I just don’t want him to fuss over me, you know? He’s always so fussy. Like a little brother.”

Mercedes’ smile is gentle and fond. It relaxes Sylvain as much as the scented cloth. “It’s funny you should say that,” she says. “I feel the same way about him.” She sets the cloth down and picks up one of the jars. “He’s so strong, but there’s something about him that makes me want to protect him.”

Sylvain’s back feels heavy against the headboard. He lets out a long breath. “He seems to have that effect on people.”

Mercedes hums good-naturedly, then begins undoing the buttons on Sylvain’s shirt.

“Hey, hey,” Sylvain jokes, winking to cover up his flinch. “Buy a guy dinner first, would you?”

“Oh,” Mercedes says, “are you hungry? I can have something brought up for you. You do need to replenish your strength. It was quite the hit you took.”

“Ah.” Sylvain feels himself wilt. “No, I wouldn’t trouble you with that. Go ahead.”

He feels his breathing turn uneven again as Mercedes undoes his shirt and helps him pull it off. The bandages underneath are lightly soiled, and Mercedes begins unwrapping those as well. Sylvain tenses with each layer that comes off.

And then Sylvain’s torso is bare. The air is cool against his clammy skin, everywhere except his left side, where a healing poultice covers a mess of delicate new tissue and hasty battlefield stitches. Under the poultice, the skin is red and angry with irritation.

Mercedes frowns. “You really should have stayed in bed.”

“I’m in bed now, aren’t I?”

“Hush,” Mercedes says, firmly but not unkindly. She studies the wound for a long moment, then sets to work opening her jars. “This really needs another round of healing magic,” she says, “but unfortunately, I’m tapped. I’ll do what I can for now, and visit first thing in the morning.”

Sylvain again feels a stab of guilt. “I’ll be all right. You shouldn’t trouble yourself over me.”

“I think I should.” Mercedes mixes a new poultice and dresses the wound. The pain spikes when the poultice hits Sylvain’s reddened skin, and Sylvain bites back a cry. Mercedes wraps him tightly in fresh bandages and says, “Now don’t move.”

Sylvain’s side throbs. He’d been managing the pain just fine before he’d seen the wound, but now every breath makes him feel ill. “No problem,” he chokes out. “I don’t think I can.”

Mercedes picks up the vial she’d brought out of the basket. “I can give you something for the pain.”

Sylvain thinks of hazy thoughts, blurred vision, stretched-out time, and fever dreams. “No,” he says, hoarse. “I can’t.”

Mercedes’ eyes are sympathetic. “I understand. I can’t either. How about for the nausea? You look a little green.”

She waits for Sylvain’s weak nod, then brings out another vial and pours a few drops of an oily tincture under his tongue.

“It’ll take a moment to work, but hopefully it’ll ease your discomfort enough to help you sleep.”

“Thank you, Mercedes. You really know how to make a man feel cared for.” Sylvain manages another wink.

“Oh, now, none of that.” Mercedes’ voice is kind. She places a hand on his shoulder. Her skin is soft and warm and comforting. “Now let’s get you under the covers, and I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

Sylvain tries to sleep. He does. But the pain has made itself known, has seeped into his bones and chilled his blood. He can’t breathe without tensing. He knows eventually he’ll exhaust himself enough to sleep, but Mercedes is staying with him, and it’s not fair to waste her time like that. She doesn’t deserve to spend her evening waiting on him.

Sylvain thinks again of the pain medicine. He shudders, then groans when the motion pulls at his wound.

Mercedes dabs her lavender-scented cloth on his forehead, shushing gently. “I know,” she murmurs, carding her fingers through his hair. “Try to lie still.”

Sylvain tries. And tries. But the last of the sunlight fades, the room bathes itself in darkness, and still he lies awake, the pain insistently pulsing through the fatigue.

Finally, Sylvain shifts. He swallows against his scratchy throat, and says, “Mercedes?”

“What is it, Sylvain?”

“I…think I need that pain medicine after all.”

Through the thin moonlight streaming into the room, Sylvain sees Mercedes’ pursed lips. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Sylvain can’t help the whimper that escapes him. “Please. I need—something.”

Mercedes says nothing for a long while, a thoughtful expression on her face. Then, “I think I’ve got an idea. Though it may be—unconventional.”

Something in her voice catches in Sylvain’s mind, prompts him to say, weakly, “Finally giving in to me, huh? I knew I’d sway you eventually. What did it? My roguish charms? My dashing good looks? My—”

Mercedes’ tone is fond when she says, “For me, it was the battle wounds. I find them unbearably attractive.”

Sylvain gapes. “Wait. You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“That’s your idea?”

“Yes.”

Bedridden with pain, covered in a sheen of sweat, and taken entirely by surprise, Sylvain attempts to collect himself. “The wounded soldier is a new role for me, you know. Just don’t judge me on my opening night performance. I’d hate to disappoint such a lovely lady.”

Mercedes has gone back to her basket. She pulls out a small bottle, then returns to sit on the chair she’s pulled up next to his bed. “Don’t be silly. This is all for you.”

“I’m not selfish. I reciprocate.”

“Now, Sylvain, I’d like you to do just as I tell you, okay?”

A flash of embarrassment runs through Sylvain as he realizes what Mercedes is doing. “I do,” he says faintly, “know how to touch myself.”

“I’m sure you do,” says Mercedes, “but there is something specific I’m aiming for, here. Will you let me help?”

Sylvain thinks on it, imagines Mercedes’ voice, steady and gentle and nurturing, leading him toward completion; imagines himself, dutifully following along like he was meant to. Despite the pain, he feels himself stir, his cock lightly brushing up against his thin pants. “Yes,” he says. “Okay, yes.”

“All right,” Mercedes says. “To start, I’d like you to touch yourself lightly, over your pants.”

Sylvain’s hand finds the front of his pants and begins a slow, lazy palm, pressing gently against the soft fabric. He’s half-hard already, and anticipation and excitement coil in his belly, winding him up for more. “Okay. Okay, what now?”

“Get yourself hard, but ease into it. Tell me where you’re sensitive.”

Sylvain follows along, traces his cock through his pants, brushes his knuckles along the underside. He’s hard embarrassingly soon. “This vein,” he says, “and just under the head, here.” He knows Mercedes can’t see him through the covers. He imagines it doesn’t matter.

“Then,” Mercedes says, “tease yourself, there. Nothing too much, yet, keep it light.”

Sylvain ghosts his fingertips down his cock, his thumb tracing the raised vein that winds down the right side. His cock jumps under his touch. He lets out a long, shaky breath and does it again, then drags his index and middle fingers up the underside to rest lightly under the head. A light brush, and then another, and Sylvain’s lower belly spasms, desperate to rut up into his touch.

The sound of Mercedes uncorking her vial sends a shiver down Sylvain’s spine. Distantly, he notices that the pain has faded to a dull buzz, ever-present but further away. “Hold your hand out for me?” Sylvain does, unthinking, and realizes with a deeply embarrassed flush that he’s presented to Mercedes the hand that was just grasping his cock. He supposes that was her intention, and yet he still feels dirty for it.

All the dirtier when Mercedes drips a sweet-smelling oil onto his fingers. “Now, reach into your pants, and using just your fingertips, tease at the head. Do nothing else.”

Sylvain gasps and very nearly thrusts up into his hand at the first touch of his oiled fingers on his flushed, straining cockhead. But Mercedes has instructed him not to do so, so he presses his hips down into the bed. His core is tense. It should hurt, and in fact, it does; but the pain registers as something to take care of later, once he’s satisfied his need for release.

He slides a fingertip along his slit and finds it wet already, like he’s some sloppy, overeager teen. A low moan escapes his throat at the thought, and he turns his face toward the wall, his face and ears and neck burning with shame. He’s usually not one for noises, especially not when he’s only touching himself.

“Whatever it was you just did,” says Mercedes, “do it again.”

Sylvain screws his eyes shut and presses the tip of his finger back into his slit. A thin droplet of precum wells up around it, and he mixes it with the oil on his cockhead. His next inhale is a hitched gasp.

“Good,” Mercedes says, her voice warm and reassuring. “You’re doing very well, Sylvain.”

And that— _that_ —has Sylvain bracing his whole body against the mattress, his cock leaking, his breath a needy whine. His hand does exactly as Mercedes asked it to, smearing his wetness around with the very tips of his fingers, and the rest of him is strung tight like a bow.

“Oh, my.” Mercedes’ voice is startled, but no less warm, and it makes the shame bearable. “I suppose I might need to be careful with that.”

Sylvain breathes through the feeling. His heart hammers in his chest, and he can’t seem to think anything outside of, “What next?”

Mercedes makes a small, thoughtful sound. “Take hold of yourself,” she says, “gently, and begin to stroke yourself. Be thorough, but slow.”

Sylvain takes his cock fully in hand. From the first downstroke, the urge to pump himself hard and rough like he’s used to is nearly overwhelming. Still Sylvain does as he’s told, giving his cock long, torturously slow strokes, brushing his thumb against the vein and making himself jump with the effort of keeping his hips still, teasing at the spot just below the head that draws whines from between his clenched teeth.

Mercedes has this go on for some time, only occasionally giving a specific instruction. Once, she stops him from grabbing hold of himself too roughly, and Sylvain nearly screams with the effort of keeping himself in check. It’s worth it for the soft, “good job” he gets in return. It’s only when his breaths start coming ragged and tears prick at his eyes that Mercedes finally lets up.

“You can stop teasing now, Sylvain. Give yourself what you need.”

 _Thank you_ is on the tip of Sylvain’s tongue, but he bites it back. This isn’t one of his little fantasies. Mercedes is doing all this for a reason. Instead, he grips himself like he’s wanted to and cries out in relief, thrusting into his hand shamelessly.

He’s leaking precum all over himself. His hand is slick between the fingers, and his pants are probably sticky with it. He doesn’t usually take this long to get himself off. Despite his reputation as a careless pleasure-seeker, the utilitarian orgasm has always been his preference: using whichever combination of motions gets him off quickest, thinking only of technique, or of nothing at all.

Now, though, he thinks of—

“Just like that, Sylvain. You’ve been so good for me.”

“ _Shit_ —”

“I’m proud of you.”

Sylvain comes so hard he chokes against it, his mouth open but all sound cutting itself off before it reaches his throat. He curls in on himself violently, his belly jerking in time with his cock as it releases thick ropes of seed all over his hand, his pants, his chest. His orgasm lasts, and lasts, and finally leaves him exhausted and boneless and shaky.

Then he lies still in his sweat-soaked sheets. Somewhere within him is the knowledge that he should, but won’t, investigate why Mercedes’ praise does it for him so thoroughly. Somewhere within him, as well, is the knowledge that all the pain that his body’s been ignoring is about to come rushing back.

But the fuzz of fatigue cuts in on his vision, and a soft hand curls over his cheek, and each exhale sinks him lower into the mattress.

He thinks he hears Mercedes say, “You and Felix aren’t much alike. But there’s something about you that makes me want to protect you, too.”

It is forgotten in an instant as, without even realizing it, Sylvain drops into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm @violetonmain on Twitter :)


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